The Impossible Sherlock Holmes
by tardisblue26
Summary: When John moves to a new school, he finds himself sharing a room with one Sherlock Holmes. As he struggles to adjust to living with the genius, Sherlock finds himself confused by the oddity that is John Watson. TeenAU, probable Johnlock.
1. Introductions

"Sweetheart, remember, you promised to write at least once a month."

"Don't worry, mum, I will, I promise." John gave his mother a quick kiss goodbye and got into the cab behind his sister.

Harry smiled at her little brother as the driver pulled away and the siblings caught a final glimpse of their mother waving on the curb. "So, ground rules now or later?"

"Let's get them sorted now, I'd like to sleep a bit before we arrive."

"Right then. First, we do not interfere with each-others' school work. And yes, that means I won't be relying on you for my English essays. Second, you and I are having lunch every Saturday. No exceptions. Other than Saturday, we need not speak during the week. Third, stay far away from Clara. I know you've got a thing for her."

John frowned. Clara had been a long-time friend of his sister's, and lately she had been spending more and more time at their house, and he had thought she might be interested in him. "What, you don't want me dating your friend?"

Harry glared at him. "No, you idiot, I don't want you hitting on my girlfriend!" Her eyes opened in shock as she realised what she had said.

"You-your what?" An expression of disbelief appeared on John's face as he began to understand. "Oh my god. Harry. Have you told- well- anyone?"

"No. And John, you can't either. I don't know how mum would react, but I'm pretty damn sure Mark would have something to say about it." She looked down.

"I'll take it to the grave." John smiled as his sister's face lit up with gratitude. "Though, would you mind if I told Andrew? You know, the bloke down the street? 'Cos he bet me ten quid he could get you to shag him."

* * *

"Honestly, I think you'll survive perfectly well without a handgun in your room. Which, I am told, you will be sharing with another student."

"Fantastic. Sharing a room with a brain dead, hormone driven imbecile for an entire school year. What could possibly be better?"

"Now Sherlock. Entering a situation with preconceived expectations of failure helps no one."

"Yes Mummy."

"Lovely. The car will be here in seven-no, eight, minutes. Traffic."

Sherlock nodded and took one last look around his bedroom, scanning it for things he had forgotten to pack. "He won't be accompanying me, will he?"

"Sherlock, your brother is quickly becoming a very powerful and influential man. It's not exactly difficult for him to obtain permission to take time off and ensure you arrive safely."

"Mother, it's a school of privileged, sheltered idiots with brains barely able to accomplish basic motor functions. I am a genius with antisocial tendencies and a proficiency in hand-to-hand combat, as well as sword play. What could possibly threaten me?"

* * *

John made his way to room assignments, passing a few people his age and attempting to spot a kindred spirit, recalling his sister's final rule for the year as they entered the school:_ One more thing Ham (on of her many nicknames for him) You need a mate. Doesn't matter who, but I know you don't make friends easily and I don't want you to spend the year alone, all right?_ John sighed. It wasn't that he didn't get along with other people, he just found the majority of them so ordinary and... well, boring. All they thought about was sex and sports. Sometimes money. Not that he didn't like those things, but there was more to life after all.

John was so distracted, lost in thought, that he nearly collided with another student.

"Whoah there, mate." A stocky boy with a sports jersey smiled at John. "Watch where you walk."

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's all right. Mike Stamford." The stranger said with a smile.

"Watson. Uh... John. Watson." John really couldn't understand why he had to be so awkward.

"Well, Watsonumjohnwatson, you new here? You seem my age, but I know everyone in the year and I don't know you."

"Yeah, I just started. My sister's Harry Watson."

"Ah! Thought I recognised the last name. Funny, you don't sound Welsh. Hey, would you mind putting a good word in for me with your sister? Always had a bit of a thing for her."

John laughed. "Believe me mate, you're not her type."

Mike shrugged. "Worth a shot. Well, let's see where you're living."

John followed behind, smiling. Maybe finding a friend wouldn't be so difficult after all. Mike certainly seemed nice enough; this year had potential to not be quite so terrible.

When they reached the lists, Mike ran his finger down the names, then turned to face John with a pained look.

"What?"

"Tell me, Watson, how good are you at dealing with difficult people?

"Oh god, why?"

"Because your room-mate is about as difficult as it gets."

John tilted his head, silently voicing his confusion and telling Mike to continue. Mike led him out of the crowd and down the hallway "How bout a tour of he school?"

"Fine..." John said slowly. "But please explain who and what my room-mate is."

Mike sighed. "His name is Sherlock Holmes."

"You're kidding. Do his parents hate him or something?"

"Nah, they're just traditionalists."

"So this Sherlock bloke, bit of a tosser?"

Mike made a scoffing noise "You've no idea. He was my lab partner all last term. Bloody brilliant, highest marks in the school, and such, cannot be arsed to do any work he considers beneath his massive intellect. He's an antisocial little wanker as well. Spoke about ten words to me the entire time, and every one of them was insulting. He thinks he's better than everyone."

"Fantastic," John groaned as all hopes of an enjoyable, ordinary year vanished.

* * *

"Are you positive we can't get around this little detail?" Sherlock sat forward in the seat of the cab, trying not to sound as if he was pleading.

"Sherlock, what do you expect me to do? It's required. No exceptions. You have to share a room."

"But last year-"

"Last year your flatmate drowned in a public swimming pool accident."

"Well couldn't you arrange another?"

"Sherlock, there will be no accidents this year. No chemical explosions, no inappropriate deductions of your professors, nothing. If you get expelled from one more school, father is sending you to a military academy. Is that really what you want?" Mycroft held his little brother's angry gaze as the cab slowed to a stop.

Sherlock huffed and exited the cab, slamming the door as he did so, then marched up the long pathway to the school.

Mycroft sighed and turned the handle of his umbrella in his hand."Could you please take his things in?" He called to the five year CIA operative with 27 years of combat training who was currently in the driver's seat. "And do be careful with his equipment."

* * *

At around noon, John walked slowly down the hallway, still adjusting to the castle-like structure of the school. He had bid Mike goodbye after promising to meet for dinner and the start-of-term announcements, then walked off to find his room, unpack his things, and hopefully survive meeting whoever he was sharing the room with. He paused before room 221B, and took a deep breath before slowly pulling his new key from his trouser pocket and unlocking and opening the door. He stared in shock at the nearly seven foot tall body-builder in a very expensive suit who was currently hanging up much too small dark purple and black dress shirts in the right cupboard. On either side of the room was a bed, a cupboard, and a small desk, with about 15 or twenty feet in the middle.

"Um... Sherlock Holmes?"

The body-builder turned and gave John a smile that reminded him of a hyena about to attack. "Do I look like a 16 year old psychopath?" He hung the last shirt and cracked his knuckles slowly.

John gulped. "If I say no, do I get to keep my kneecaps?"

The man looked at him blankly for a second, then chuckled. "You've got spirit. Good on you, mate. I like you, so I'm going to give you a bit of advice for rooming with the young Holmes. Don't back down or let this kid run all over you. He likes a challenge. Want to survive the term? Give him one."

With that, the man picked a pair of black sunglasses up off the desk and left the room. John blinked in confused apprehension. What the hell kind of room-mate did he have? He turned and surveyed the room. The bed next to the cupboard with the dress shirts was already made with dark blue sheets, probably silk from the look of it. John sighed and walked over to the unmade mattress and empty cupboard on the left, then began unpacking.

* * *

It was well past five in the afternoon when John finally met his infamous room-mate. He was sitting on his bed, leaning against the headboard, and re-reading his battered copy of Mary Shelly's Frankenstein when the noise of his door closing made him start and turn to see the exact opposite of the person he had expected. When John heard about Sherlock Holmes, in his head he pictured a short, pale, spotty ginger with glasses and some sort of pocket protector.

Well, at least he got the pale aspect right. The scowling boy that entered the room was tall and thin, with an elegant and superior way of walking, a flawlessly pale face, the most defined cheekbones he'd ever seen in a human being, and shockingly bright blue-green eyes. His jet black hair fell in unruly curs around his face and his thin mouth sat in a way that suggested it had been involved in the trivial act of smiling a grand total of four times in its existence.

Sherlock Holmes turned and took notice of his companion. Those piercing eyes of his seemed to scan John, then the room around him. He turned back to John and after a solid three minutes of silence, John Watson heard Sherlock Holmes speak for the first time. "Dear God, please tell me you haven't touched anything."

John stuttered. "W-What? No."

"Good. The equipment is extremely valuable." With that, Sherlock crossed to his desk and opened the case that sat on top of it and began rifling through the contents.

John was startled by the boy's voice, a low drawl that sounded like a finely tuned cello. "Well, erm, hello, I'm-"

"John Watson, age 16, born in Cardiff, but moved to London with father after your parents' divorce. Elder sister named Harry, probably short for Harriet, who grew up in Cardiff with your mother. You play football and hope to pursue a medical career. Your father died sometime around a year ago, most likely in a car accident. You were present, it left you with a nervous twitch and an introverted personality. Your father was a military man - Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?"

"Simple enough question." Sherlock finally turned to look at him. "Did your father serve in Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Uh- neither, he was injured in a training exercise, lost sight in one eye, deemed unfit for deployment-how the hell did you know all that?" John was thoroughly confused-and more than a bit creeped-out. "Did you- I don't know, google me?"

Sherlock looked repulsed, and a bit exasperated. "No, I did not 'google'" He spat the verb out as if John had suggested he partook in acts of cannibalism. "I observed."

"You observed." John shook his head and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Who the hell are you?"

"You already know my name, that I'm a sociopath with a tendency to patronise and demean, and that I'm more than a little narcissistic."

"Correct, Mr. Holmes. " He said with a smirk. "Well, go on then. How did you 'observe' all those things? And don't act like it's such a burden to tell me. I've met blokes like you before, and they always love to show off. Genius needs an audience, after all."

Sherlock's eyes betrayed his shock at John's words, but they regained their cold apathy quickly. "All right. Your name. John Watson is written on your luggage tag, tucked under your bed. Your eyes are the same shape and color as those of Harry Watson, age 17, girl from Cardiff in the year above. Sister, then. She's got a distinctly Welsh accent, and your speech is tinted with Welsh intonations, but they are almost unnoticeable, implying you moved to London at an early age, probably around four or five. Your sister stays in Wales but you move to London as a toddler? Familial separation, obviously. Could be the death of both parents, you both are sent to live with different parts of your extended family. However, you have a half finished letter to you mother on your desk, and people don't leave letters to the dead just lying about. Divorce, then. Now, who did you move to London with? Could be the mother, but in cases such as this boys usually live with the father and girls the mother. Easier that way. Next for the father's military career and death. Your hair is cut in a distinctly military style and you've unpacked your things and placed them in a manner so organised it could border on the neurotic. Combined with the well worn military jacket hanging in your cupboard, it wasn't a huge leap.

"Now, for the death. This is your first year at this school, your name was on the new arrival's list. Your sister's was not. She's been here for years, but you are just enrolling? You moved back in with your mother then. But why? Is your father abusive? A drunk? If so you would not keep his jacket in your closet, or a picture of the two of you on your desk. You jumped when I closed the door, then tensed as if expecting an attack. You could be naturally paranoid and suspicious, but no one who is in constant fear of assault would leave the door to his room unlocked and open. This does contribute, however, to the abusive father theory, but as I said, sentiment towards the father would not exist if that were the case. Now we take into account the slight tremor in your left hand as you read, as well as the fact that you prefer sitting in an empty room with an old book to socialising with the new friends you have the potential to make, which leads toward the assumption that these are the by-products of physical and emotional trauma, ergo, violent death of the father, car crash is the most common. Oh, and football and the medical career-football kit under your bed and two medical textbooks-not required for any course here- sitting on your desk, not to mention "Frankenstein", interesting choice for a football jock. Any questions?" Sherlock finished with a smug look.

John tried very hard not to look as if he had just been clubbed over the head. "That...was... amazing."

Sherlock frowned. "Not the reaction I usually get."

"Really? What do people normally say?

"Piss off."

John chuckled. "Well, since we are rooming together, and apparently we both share some antisocial tendencies, what do you say?" He extended a hand. "Mates?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "No. I don't have friends." And with that, he gave John a nod and opened the door. "Oh, and by the way. Touch any of my experiments or possessions, and I can ensure a very painful death that on all accounts will look like an accident." Then, just when John thought nothing else could shock him, right before walking through the doorway, Sherlock winked. "Afternoon." The door closed behind him, and John was left to wallow in shock and disbelief.


	2. Shortcomings

When John finally put on the school blazer and made his way down to dinner, he found Mike sitting with an empty seat next to him, but otherwise surrounded by people.

"Oi! Watson!" Mike waved for John to join them.

John sat down next to Mike apprehensively. He was really not fond of being the centre of attention.

"All right, you lot. This is John Watson. Like Harry Watson, only younger, a bloke, and less Welsh."

"Lestrade." A tall, muscled boy smirked at him from the end of the table. "Just Lestrade, actually."

"We've been trying to guess his first name for years. Sometimes I don't even think he has one." A girl across from Lestrade chimed in.

Lestrade shrugged. "Not my division."

She rolled her eyes. "Thinks he's clever, this one. Sally by the way. Actual first name, I'm a conformist like that, and the last name is Donovan."

John nodded in recognition as Mike completed the introductions. "This is Vic, Sarah, Sebastian, Mary, Jeanette, and Louis." John nodded at all of them, but gave the pretty brunette-Sarah, was it?-a smile, which she shyly returned. "So how's the boy genius?" Mike started, then explained John's rooming situation to the others at the table.

"You poor thing, rooming with the freak." Sally shook her head.

"He's not a freak, Sal." Lestrade glared. "He's just a bit odd. He's a right good help in my criminal history class. Once you're around him long enough, you start blocking out the condescension and he's not bad."

"Not bad, horrible." Sally frowned in disgust. "Don't care what you say about him, Lestrade. He's a freak and a psychopath and I just hope I graduate before he starts going on murder sprees."

John frowned slightly, and decided he didn't particularly like Sally Donovan.

* * *

Sherlock sat in the chemistry lab, analysing a dead rat. His mind whirred and for the first time he found it difficult to concentrate on his work. His mind kept betraying him and wandering back to John Watson, his exceptionally strange new room-mate. He shook his head and tried to focus on the rat. He lifted up his scalpel, then slowly and deliberately cut open the rat's stomach.

"Oh god, what are you doing?"

Sherlock sighed in frustration "You can leave, you know."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Well, you blew up the chem lab in the west corridor last year, so, no, actually, I can't."

"I don't need-"

"A responsible supervisor? Umm, yes, you do. You aren't allowed in the labs without one. And I'm the only person willing to come in here with you, so be nice." Molly moved to sit on the counter next to Sherlock's rat. "Now, what on earth are you doing?"

Sherlock sighed reluctantly. "I'm subjecting the rodent corpse to a series of tests. A week ago, I injected it with a commonly untraceable poison, then testing the internal reactions that occur in the poisoned subject."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"You are exceptionally strange, Sherlock Holmes." Molly smiled down at him. "So, this weekend. First one of the term, and we're all old enough to be allowed into town on our own, do you - maybe, fancy a coffee or something?"

Sherlock looked up. " Go all the way into town for something I could easily acquire from the kitchens? I think not."

"I meant with me."

"How does your included company change the fact that it's a pointless trip?"

"God, you're daft. Are you even fully equipped?"

"Oh." Sherlock froze. "Of course. You are absolutely right, miss Hooper. How can I review my results without permanent evidence? I'll need my camera, thank you for reminding me. I'll just be a minute!" He cried, dashing out of the laboratory. "Don't go anywhere!"

* * *

John noticed that Sherlock didn't attend dinner, and arrive late to the start of term announcements. He entered the hall with a very pretty brunette, who drug him into a seat. The announcements were remarkably dull, made interesting only by Lestrade's constant mocking of the headmaster's droning speech. Finally, the students were released and John bid goodbye to his new friends and set off to 221B. When he opened the door, he found Sherlock perched on John's bed, tuning his violin. Sherlock's own bed was covered with library books, several vials of suspicious liquids, and what seemed to be a bottle of tiny red eyes.

"Evening. I don't think I mentioned earlier. I play the violin. Loudly. At very late hours of the night. It helps me think."

"What the hell-"

"I don't sleep. Well, often. I like to dismember animals for research. I will borrow your things for my own purposes and most likely not return them."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"I am also very condescending."

"I realised. Are you trying to provoke me or something?"

"I'm merely letting you know that I am a terrible person to room with. You should move into another room. Or drown."

"What?"

"I'm a communist."

"Who gives a fuck?"

"Your jumpers are ugly and you've got a stupid face."

John couldn't help himself, he laughed. "Listen Sherlie. I'm not moving. I don't care if you're a cannibalistic Nazi rapist who likes to scream at puppies, I'm staying here and that's that. Now, budge off my bed."

"No." Sherlock crossed his arms in defiance.

"Right then." John flopped himself onto Sherlock's bed, feeling book spines collide with his own.

Sherlock jumped up. "Fine, I'm off."

John smiled. "Lovely." He sat down crossed-legged on his own bed. "So. Holmes, my dear boy. When exactly do you plan on lobotomising me in my sleep? Just a point of interest."

"You're hilarious." Sherlock spat, inspecting his vials for cracks.

"I saw your girlfriend today. She seems lovely." John tried lamely for a conversation starter that would make Sherlock warm up to him a bit.

Instead, Sherlock turned and gave him a confused look. "By girlfriend you mean...?"

"Pretty brunette. Hair pulled back. She wrangled you into the announcements today."

"Ah, Molly. No, not my girlfriend."

John leaned against the wall next to his bed. "Have you got a girlfriend?"

"No." John had to confess he was a bit shocked. Sure, the boy was a bit of a tosser, but he had natural good looks and a sort of bad-boy air about him that surely some girls found appealing. "Not really my area."

Oh. OH. Right then. "So, a boyfriend, is it?"

"No." Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Would that bother you? If I was gay?"

"My sister's a lesbian." Sherlock's face fell as John realised he wasn't supposed to tell anyone that. Well, it wasn't like Sherlock was going to gossip.

Sherlock's face fell. "I thought as much. Damn."

"Well, no significant other to speak of then? Unless of course, you find dendrophilia enticing?"

Sherlock glared at him. "No."

John smiled at Sherlock's response to someone else chiding him. "That's fine, then. You're, shall we say, unattached. Like me."

Sherlock squirmed. Actually squirmed, which was something John would not have expected from the admittedly graceful genius. "Um- John. I'm flattered, really. But I- well, I'm not really interested in any sort of romantic- um-thing."

John reeled in the horror of a misunderstanding, but still found a flustered Sherlock very appealing. In a oh-he-thinks-hes-so-clever-but-look-at-him-lost-for-words, sort of way, naturally. Not in an adorable sort of way. Of course not. "A sort of...romantic. Um. Thing. Well there's all my dreams crushed. All I ever wanted out of life was a sort-of-romantic-um-thing with an obnoxious sociopathic genius. I **meant** that it's all fine. You single, me single, it doesn't matter. Honestly, I thought you were good at reading people."

Sherlock's face expressed a much deeper loathing than John had seen before. He made a mental note not to mock him quite so much in the future. "Yes, I'm exceptional at reading people. I've a ninety-four percent success rate in my assumptions as to the natures of others." He paused for the slightest of seconds. "And I deduced that you were, if not gay, then at least attracted to as well as interested in me. What does that say about you, John Watson?"

John gaped. "Well, that's just-no, I mean, I'm not gay!"

Sherlock smirked. "Not yet, at least."

John crossed to the threshold and left the room, wanting to be anywhere but with the impossible Sherlock Holmes.

"Tsk, tsk." Sherlock smiled and closed the door. "Some people are so touchy." And with that, he sat down on his desk to write up a report on his experiments.


	3. First Impressions

It was around 2 in the morning in the B block of rooms. It was still dark out, and the stars were just visible above the line of trees. John Watson was sleeping peacefully, which was nice. Too often his sleep was plagued with nightmares of sudden terror, loud, obtrusive noise, and blood. He was warm and comfortable, wrapped in his navy blue comforter. The school rules prohibited wandering around after dark, and there was nothing else to make noise. It was a deep, peaceful sleep, perfect for the night before one's first day of school.

And amidst the serenity, a grinning Sherlock Holmes pulled his violin out of its case. He thought to himself, _Hmm. Well, Watson, since you have expressed no aversions to classical violin at all hours of the night, how would you like some at, oh, shall we say, 2 in the morning? _His grin widened. _Let's see, what to play for you... Hmm. The violin section from Brahms Violin Concerto in D Major? If you insist._ He began to play quietly, as if easing John into the piece. The blond boy turned in his sleep, hearing the music but not quite processing it. Sherlock played louder, getting into the music.

John groggily woke up and stared in disbelief at Sherlock, who was looking out of the window and playing his violin at - bloody hell- 2 in the morning. Who the **hell** plays his violin at two in the morning? "Oi!" John called to his room-mate, but Sherlock continued playing. "OI!" He threw his pillow at him. The genius stopped and turned to face him, an amused smile on his face. "I swear to every god that anyone has ever believed in, if you don't stuff it and let me sleep, I will break that violin into 40 pieces and stab each and every one of them through your eyes."

Sherlock let out a - god, could it even be called a laugh?- a sharp sound that projected evil amusement, then continued to play. John pulled his remaining pillow over his head and tried to block out the music. It was almost half an hour later that he finally went to sleep.

* * *

It was around 7 in the morning. After a night of mischief, Sherlock had finally drifted off to sleep. He never slept long, or dreamt often, for that matter, but he did occasionally need rest. He was only human, after all. He lay, tangled in his sheets, his hair falling wildly over his eyes. He wasn't planning on going for breakfast, which meant he could sleep in later. All in all, it was a nice first morning of term.

...but what the hell was that obnoxious, obtrusive rhythm?

Sherlock groaned and slowly drifted into conciousness. The music, and he was using the loosest definition of the word, began softly, but was becoming progressively louder until it was actually causing his ears physical pain. Sherlock could already feel his headache emerging.

_When I walk on by, girls be looking like damn he fly_

_I pimp to the beat, walking on the street in my new lafreak, yeah_

Oh god.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and sat up slowly in his bed. Standing at the end of it was one John Watson, shirtless and wearing a pair of striped pyjama pants, signing along to some awful repetitive song. If it weren't so horrifying and annoying, it would have been amusing.

"When I walk in the spot, this is what I see, Everybody stops and they staring at me. I got passion in my pants and I ain't afraid to show it, show it, show it, show it. I'm sexy and I know it!" John danced on Sherlock's bed, emphasizing every beat with a thrust or a wiggle. The music of John's iPod blasted in Sherlock's ear, and John's every move made his bed shake.

"Good morning Sherlock!" John cried happily as he danced. "Since you so kindly played me music last night, I thought I would return the favour. How do you feel about LMFAO?"

Sherlock clutched his sheets to his chest, as if this would protect him from the assault to his eyes, ears, and bed. "Is that a disease?" He practically had to scream to be heard over John's blaring speakers.

John just laughed and continued to dance and sing. Sherlock jumped out of bed and stomped over to John's desk where his iPod lay connected to black speakers. He pulled the connecting cable out roughly, then turned to glare at John, who stood on his bed with his arms crossed.

"Now, Sherlock, let's get something sorted right now." He stepped off the bed and slowly advanced on Sherlock, who couldn't help but notice how muscular the older boy was. It was a bit difficult to appreciate, however, when those said muscles could very much assist John in giving Sherlock a rather nasty concussion. "You wake me up with a concerto in the middle of the night, I treat you to as much repetitive pop music as I can find. LMFAO, One Direction, Hell, I'll play 'Call Me Maybe' until your ears bleed. Are we clear?" He poked Sherlock's chest and Sherlock had to admit, he found the boy threatening.

Sherlock had no idea what any of those things were, but frankly this morning had been filled with enough 'pop' music to last him a lifetime. "Fine." He muttered, then swept past John to exit the room and go down the hall to brush his teeth and glare at random passer-by. He might even add some light grumbling under his breath.

John smiled and changed into some jeans and a plaid shirt, before heading down to breakfast. He broke into a grin as he walked, confident that if he could put Sherlock Holmes in his place, nothing else could be near as difficult.

* * *

John's classes were relatively uneventful until English. The teacher walked into the room with a flourish, a tall, ginger woman with her hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, a white blouse tucked into a black pencil skirt, and black heels, looking, for all purposes, the very model of professionalism. She placed a sleek black top hat on her desk and placed her hands on either side of it. She scanned the class with a blank expression, and every person in the class held their breath.

"Was the hope drunk

Wherein you dress'd yourself? Hath it slept since?

And wakes it now, to look so green and pale

At what it did so freely? From this time

Such I account thy love. Art thou afeard

To be the same in thine own act and valour

As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that

Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life,

And live a coward in thine own esteem,

Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'

Like the poor cat i' the adage?" She finished with a smirk.

The entire class stared at her, extremely confused. In fact, most of them looked at her as if confused what language she was speaking. She opened her mouth again. "Good morning, everyone. My name is Evelyn Blackthorne. Yes, that is my actual name. Now, if anyone, if a single person in this classroom can identify the origin of what I just said, I will reward the entire class by cancelling the group project I have in store for you, which includes two essays and a presentation, and instead have you all construct shoe box dioramas of your favourite childhood picture books."

A wave of the most uncomfortable silence John had ever experienced rushed through the room. He could practically feel some of the students' inner pleas that someone, anyone, would know the quote.

"No takers? Damn. Every year I offer an out, and yet not one student is prepared, don't any of your elder schoolmates **ever** warn you about me?" She smiled an held up the hat. "Shame. Anyway, I have here, a hat. This hat is filled with the names of half of the members of the class. I have here..." She held up a sheet of paper. "A list of the names of the other half. I will call out a name from this list, and fate will decide the pairing." She called out the names of the partners and most people groaned at not being sorted to work with their friends. John found himself working with Molly Hooper, Sherlock's...whatever.

"All right, let's get down to it, shall we. So. Your assignment for the next two or so months, is to find a Shakespearean monologue and not only give me its meaning, but write a new version of it. It can be a modern version if you choose, but it must have a back-story, character development, at least 3 characters, and be 18 to 24 pages in length, in essence a short story. Now, for the interesting bit. Both partners will choose their own individual monologues, but both monologues will need to be included in the same story. Then, at the end of two months time, you will perform your partner's chosen monologue for the entire class. Your score will depend on your creativity, dedication, comprehension of the intended meaning, and enthusiasm." She smiled at the class, the majority of whom were staring at her as if she had grown a second head that spoke Arabic. "Is there anyone who does not understand the assignment?" A couple of hands shot into the air. John sighed. Her instructions were really not that difficult to understand.

"Lovely. Well, you in the pink, Georgia or Ginny, were texting the entire time I was speaking, so it's your fault you missed it. And- boy in the blue, I frankly have no idea what your name was, though it was most likely something mundane and forgettable like Mark or Jack or Stan. You sir, were staring at- I don't know, a bird or something else apparently fascinating outside of your window instead of listening to me explain what will be worth half of your grade. And finally, Mr-if-Matt-Smith-can-get-away-with-this-hair-then-obviously-I-can-as-well, the next time I address the class, if you would just finish your love note to Lillian and muster up the courage to give it to her instead of just longingly gazing at the back of her head, that would be wonderful. The rest of you can explain the assignment to them. And yes," She said at last, " I have damn good eyesight. Now get to work. Today is all about connecting with your partners, and tomorrow we shall truly descend into the dark, wretched abyss that is the mandatory dissection of classic literature. Go on then, don't make me publicly embarrass **all** of you!" John smiled. He was really starting to like Professor Blackthorne.

The entire class scrambled to move and sit next to their partners. Molly crossed the room slowly to sit in the empty chair next to John. "Hi, I'm John Watson." He said with a smile.

"Molly Hooper. I- well, I don't know much about Shakespeare, or acting. But I, er, well I do need to get a good grade, and I will work very hard to do so." She smiled shyly at him.

"Well, that's-great, I guess. Good to know you won't leave me with all the work." John paused. "So, are you a friend of Sherlock Holmes?"

She giggled lightly, then her face looked almost sad. "Oh no. Sherlock barely notices I'm there. He's always off in his own little world. I just help him out, that's all."

John examined the girl's face, and tried to read it when a sudden flash of realisation hit him. "Oh god, you fancy him. You do, oh I'm sorry, he's such a git."

"No, I-" She sighed. "It's that obvious?" He gave a bit of a nod. "Well, he- he's I don't know, so unlike all the other guys I've met. He's... different. He's so - I don't know, intelligent. So intelligent he's almost burning. And when, I'm around him, it's like, I can be myself. I'm not so introverted around him, not so quiet. He's just unique, and his own kind of wonderful."

John smiled at her. "Yeah, I understand."Molly's eyes widened and she silently asked him a hundred questions. "Oh no, no, god no, I didn't mean- not like that- I'm not gay."

She gave him a teasing smile. "I never said you were."

"Oh. Well, okay then. I meant that I understand meeting someone who makes you come out of your shell. But listen, I don't think Sherlock is the boyfriend type. He just- I'm pretty sure no woman on the planet could handle him."

She giggled quietly. "I think you're right." She gave him a faint smile, then sighed. "All right, Shakespeare. He wrote the... Iliad, was it?"

John laughed hesitantly, not entirely positive she was joking.

* * *

While John was making new friends, Sherlock was greeting old ones. "Lestrade." He nodded as the boy sat down next to him in his elective, Criminal History and Legal Studies. It was a program the school had started a few years back in order to encourage students to become more legally active; after all, lawyer alumni did provide the largest donations.

"Sherlock! How was your holiday?"

"Dismal and dull."

"So, the usual then?" He smirked at the taller boy. "I met your room-mate, John. Seems like a nice bloke, I hope you haven't killed him yet."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, I thought I'd save that for the annual school trip, then lure him to the roof of the train and throw him off."

Lestrade cocked his head in confusion, then grinned. "Al-Tourbini?"

"Nothing like a good Egyptian serial killer." Sherlock gave him a small smirk.

* * *

When class ended, John said goodbye to Molly and lingered at the back of the room until it was vacated. He then slowly approached Professor Blackthorne's desk. She kept her eyes on the notes she was scribbling. "Yes, strange plaid boy who smiles too often?"

"Oh, um. I just wanted to say that I'm really looking forward to this project, and that- well, I think you're brilliant and I'm really looking forward to spending this year in your class."

She stopped and looked up at him carefully. "Thank you, you strangle little boy. What was your name?"

"John. Watson, that is."

"Hmm. Well, I wouldn't expect me to remember it, it's so very ordinary." She smiled at him. "Better run along, wouldn't want to be late for lunch, now would we?"

John nodded. "Yes professor." He walked over to the door, then stopped. "Oh, and by the way, professor Blackthorne?"

She sighed and looked back to him. "Yes?"

"It was Lady Macbeth." He smiled as she gaped at him. "Your quote? At the beginning of class. Lady Macbeth. Act 1 Scene 7, I believe. I would have spoken up before, but I'm awful at dioramas." He nodded once to her, then opened the door and left the classroom.

* * *

Sherlock was not having the most fantastic of times. He was forced to breathe the same air as Anderson, and therefore was fervently hoping his IQ wouldn't drop as a result. His CHLS elective was this year requiring group work, and unfortunately, despite the fact that his IQ would more than account for his lack of partners, his professor refused to qualify one person as a 'group' so that left him in the company of Lestrade, Donovan, and (shudder) Anderson. He might just have to jump off a roof in the near future. Lestrade was not too terrible to be around, but Anderson and Donovan had just enough intelligence between the two of them to outwit an edible mushroom. Also, Anderson's face, voice, attitude, and personality were annoying and generally unbearable. Combine this group work with his impossible room-mate, and Sherlock was looking at his worst year yet.

* * *

As John walked slowly down the hallway, he relished the thought of an entire class period to himself. He might take a walk, explore the grounds, something along those lines.

"John Watson" A woman's voice called from behind him. He turned to see a very properly dressed woman with long, shiny hair. "You're to come with me."

She didn't wait for a response, just turned and began to walk in the other direction.

John gulped. He really hoped he wasn't already in trouble; he mentally rechecked his memory of the punishable infractions in the student handbook, he hadn't done anything wrong yet. He marched after the woman, who led him down a series of corridors and stair cases until he was well and truly lost, then finally turned into the theatre, where an array of seats sat in darkness in front of an empty stage. The woman told him to wait there, then nodded and left the room, typing quickly away on her Blackberry.

John eyed the empty theatre wearily. He was a bit nervous. What kind of disciplinary meetings take place in dark, empty theatres? Just when he was about to turn around and walk out of the space, he heard soft footsteps on the stage and saw a man slowly walk out to the centre, then turn to face John. He was a tall man, in his late twenties, John suspected, with the body of one who has recently realised that they are no longer young enough to eat whatever they want whenever they want. The man was sharply dressed and carried a black umbrella, though it hadn't rained in weeks.

"John Watson" the man began, "Football player, good student but not exceptional, mourning the death of your father, and just transferred to this academy."

"Um, yeah. Sorry, am I in trouble?"

The man gave him a small smile, meant to be reassuring but it gave the impression of a cat luring a mouse into a sense of security. "Should you be?"

"Not that I'm aware of..." John just stared at the man. "Okay, one more question. Who are you?"

"That's not important."

"Well, yeah. It kind of is. But you're not a professor, that's pretty obvious. So I don't have to stay here do I?" John turned to leave the theatre.

"Do you intend on changing rooms, John?"

John stopped. "Why?"

"Well, young Sherlock has displayed his plethora of talents that disturb and annoy, and yet you have made no efforts to switch rooms. Why is that, I wonder?" The man slowly made his way to the end of the stage, then walked slowly down the steps, coming towards John.

"You know, it occurs to me that where I live is none of your business." John walked slowly towards the man, refusing to let him intimidate him.

"Ah. Yes, well. If you do intend on remaining in room 221B, I am prepared to give you a sizeable amount of money to provide me with information on Sherlock. His actions, his experiments, things of that sort."

John stared at the man. This was just plain weird. "Why the hell do you want information on a teenage boys actions?"

The man tilted his head. " I'm concerned, naturally."

"Are you his therapist or something?

"No." The man said with a chuckle. "Any therapist of Sherlock Holmes is fated to check themselves into a mental health facility after a session alone with him. I am nothing of the sort."

"Well." John said with a smile, "You can sod off. I'm not going to accept money to spy on my room-mate." He turned (rather dramatically, he had to admit, but it's not like the present circumstances didn't call for it) and walked away.

"'John Hamish Watson has difficulty adjusting to everyday life. The accident has left the boy wounded and reluctant to establish friendships with those his own age. He continues to build walls around himself and still has trust issues.'"

John froze. Where had he heard that before? Oh god. It couldn't be that therapist his mother had forced him to see. No, no way.

"Trust issues. Hm. Well, well. Perhaps you trust Sherlock Holmes? The boy with emotional walls to rival those built at Troy could teach you a thing or two about closing yourself off. I'm not sure how your therapist would feel about it, but I know nothing I say or do will change your decision." He paused briefly. "I can tell just by your left hand. It has an intermittent tremor, and your lovely therapist was so kind as to diagnose it in this journal." He held up a small leather bound book. "She thinks you're haunted by the accident, and that stress causes your hand to tremble. But she's got it the wrong way. You **are** haunted, but it is in stress that you thrive, John Watson. In danger, and risk. You'll find that with Sherlock, if you can convince him not to kill you."

John kept his back to the man. He was exceptionally confused as to who this man was, why he was so interested in Sherlock, and most of all, how he managed to get his hands on his therapist's journal. At this point, he was more than a bit terrified. The dark, empty theatre, the mysterious man; everything about this screamed 'dangerous'. John waited and processed what the man had said, and when he did not speak again, John once again walked towards the door, a bit more quickly this time.

"Good luck, John Watson." Mycroft turned and walked up the steps and through the backstage exits. "You **will** need it."


	4. Strange Encounters

After spending what was left of his before-lunch discretionary period under a tree, contemplating the sudden turn for the extremely weird that his life had recently taken, John made his way to eat with his sort-of friends. The only one who was sitting at the familiar table, however, was Lestrade.

"Hey." He nodded to John as he sat down.

"Hey. Where is everyone?"

"Eh. Various excuses; Mike's gone down to the library, Sally is snogging Anderson between periods so his girlfriend doesn't find out, Seb's in trouble again, Sarah's doing extra credit, which is absolutely insane, it's the first day, for god's sake, and I think Jeannie is dieting again and Vic's practicing for football tryouts. They're in a week, by the way, do you play?"

"I'm obsessed." John said with a smile. "Okay, well, obsessed is a strong word, but I've been playing since I was six."

Lestrade's face lit up. "Finally. A kindred soul. Vic's just taking up the sport to impress Mary, and he's complete rubbish so far. You know, when I saw you last night, I thought you had a player's build."

John gave him a small smile. "You were checking out my build?"

Lestrade grimaced. "Don't flatter yourself mate. You're not my type." He said with a wink.

"Damn." John smiled at him, finally feeling as if he could connect with someone, maybe even establish a friendship. "So, tell me, Lestrade, what position do you prefer?" He said with a knowing smile as Lestrade laughed at the reference.

The two boys held a pleasant conversation for a while before John finally decided to ask, "So, Sherlock Holmes. Explain."

Lestrade gave him a puzzled look. "Explain what?"

"Why the greater part of the student body seems to hate him yet no one beats him up behind the library; why he's a pompous, self-assured dick and he's still alive."

"Aah. Well, you see, Sherlock's, uh... different. A genius, supposedly. And... well, he sees things normal people can't. Like, he'll tell you your entire life story two minutes after meeting you, and be correct on every account. He's got an eye for detail and deduction. Which makes him an excellent bloke to come to if you ever need a favour. If you need something found, or a secret revealed. Not to mention, he knows everyone's dirty little secrets. He deduces them right off people's faces. And you don't mess with the kid who knows what exams you cheated on, or what you're not telling your parents. The need for and fear of Sherlock Holmes in this school means he's got everyone in the palm of his hand. No one is going to cross him." He finished with a shrug. "If you ask me, he's not nearly as bad as everyone makes him out to be."

"Hmm." John said, considering what Lestrade had said.

"Oh god, is that the time?" Lestrade cried, glancing at his watch. "We're going to be late to the next class if we don't hurry. What've you got?"

John checked his mental schedule. "Chemistry."

"With Professor Himswitch?"

"Yeah."

"Fantastic, we'll be late together. Come on Johnny boy." Lestrade grabbed his book bag off the chair and the two boys rushed to their class.

* * *

After all his classes had finished, John was treating himself to a nice walk around the school, trying to discover any of its hidden secrets or creepy corridors. It was a strange thing to enjoy, but he liked to do it anyway. As he rounded a corner near the science labs, he heard an argument coming from down the hall. He followed the noise to a chemistry lab, where Sherlock was sitting on a metal stool looking down at the ground as a dark figure loomed over him. John couldn't help himself; he pressed his ear to the door to listen. He heard

"- you not supposed to have a chaperone? Mr. Holmes, answer the question." Silence followed. "Well, if you have nothing to say for yourself, I will be forced to take this matter to the headmaster. This, as you well know, is a blatant violation of the terms of your reinstatement in this institution. It could well end in your expulsion from this school!"

John didn't think, he just acted on instinct. He took his chemistry gear out of his book bag, then tossed the bag into a dark corner of the hallway, just out of sight. He then waited for the voice to stop speaking, and strode casually into the laboratory. "All right, you bloody prat, I brought the damn notebook and vials, can you finish your sodding-" John stopped in front of a woman that he recognised as the head of the science department from the commencement speech the day before. Both the woman and Sherlock stared at him, confusion clear on their faces. "Oh, sorry professor. I didn't mean, pardon my language, that is." He looked down with what he hoped looked like embarrassment.

"Sorry, who are you?" The woman asked angrily.

"John Watson." He kept his head down.

"Well, Mr. Watson, what are you doing here?"

"Making sure **he** doesn't blow anything up." John looked up finally and shot Sherlock an angry look. "He said he needed someone to come in with him, and since no one else wanted to and I'm rooming with him, I guess I just got the short straw."

The woman's expression of anger and mistrust did not disappear, John hadn't expected it would. "And why did you leave Mr. Holmes alone?"

John sighed and rolled his eyes at Sherlock. "He said he needed a notebook to record his findings, a new one, and a couple of vials we had in our room. The smell in here (for it did actually smell awful, what had Sherlock been experimenting with?) was making me sick, so I volunteered to get them for him. I wasn't gone long."

The woman turned on Sherlock with all the grace and threatening demeanor of a hawk eyeing its prey. "So. Sherlock. You were supposedly here with John the entire time, until he had to leave to get some supplies. How convenient he turns up **now** to clear your name. How do I know this isn't all a lie to save you from expulsion?"

John snorted (actually snorted, he was impressed with himself) "Me, the new guy at school, lie and put myself in jeopardy for the school pariah? Yeah, that's likely. And as for our personal relationship? Last night he told me I should go drown and this morning he woke me up at two o' clock with a violin concerto. The last thing I wanted to do was help him, he just wouldn't quit whining. Plus, he promised me ten quid." John shrugged.

The woman silently examined both boys' faces for a minute, then her glare slightly lessened. "Well, I have no proof that either of you is lying, so I'll let you boys off just this once. Now go to your room, I'm locking up the laboratory." She turned and walked to the corner of the room to turn off the lights. The boys didn't need to be told twice; they both rushed out of the lab. John made sure she wasn't watching him, then scurried to retrieve his book bag.

Sherlock and John walked in silence until they were safe inside their shared room. John crossed to his closet to change out of his school clothes, and Sherlock stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.

"I suppose thanks are in order."

John turned, shock clear on his face. "I'm sorry?"

"Thank you. There aren't many people who would've done what you did, and you certainly had no reason to do it. Combine that with a threat of expulsion and inevitably, a military academy, and I would say that at the very least, I owe you my gratitude." He nodded at John.

"Oh. Well, don't worry about it." John was feeling awkward, so he sat down on his bed and concentrated all his attention on the task of removing his socks and shoes.

"Why did you do it?"

John looked up at him again. "What?"

"I've been nothing but horrible to you, and you obviously think I'm an annoying prat, and you haven't asked for anything in return as of yet, so I'm curious as to your motives."

John chuckled. "I'm a nice guy. I don't see the point in standing by and letting bad things happen to people who make small mistakes. Not if you can help." He shrugged, pulling off a striped sock. "Even if it happens to be your prat of a room-mate." He said with a smile.

And in spite of himself, Sherlock returned it. "You are a unique specimen, John Watson."

"Yeah, because you're the poster boy for normality."

Sherlock shrugged. "In my house, I am normal."

John shuddered at that particular thought. A house full of people like Sherlock. Hell, one Holmes was enough of a nuisance. "I still think you probably need some professional help." He smirked, then the smile froze on his face. "Oh god. I completely forgot. I met a friend of yours."

Sherlock gave him a confused look. "A friend? Of mine?"

"Well, I say friend..." John stood. "Well, let me see, it was a tall bloke, bit out of shape, carried an umbrella, acted as if he was royalty, and wanted me to spy on you. Even offered to pay me."

Sherlock smiled. "How much did you manage to get?"

"I didn't accept the offer!"

Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"

"It just... didn't feel right. I didn't want to betray someone like that. Not to some creep who hangs around empty theatres." John felt himself give an involuntary shudder.

Sherlock gave a short laugh. "'Some creep'. Hmm. I suppose that does sum up Mycroft rather well."

"Oh, so you do know him."

"Naturally. He's my older brother."

John's eyes widened. "Your- oh god. You weren't kidding about normality in the Holmes household."

"Sadly, no."

"And why exactly does he want me to spy on you?"

Sherlock gave an uncharacteristic shrug. "I suppose to make sure I'm not doing or making anything illegal."

John had no illusions that the other boy was joking when he said that, so he really had no idea how to respond. He finally just nodded and walked over to his closet to change. He pulled his shirt off and - blast it where did he leave the damn thing - scanned the floor, attempting to find his loose sleeping shirt, as he really didnt want to strut around without one. He turned - maybe he left it on the bed - and came face to face with Sherlock. And not just in a Sherlock-was-standing-in-front-of-him way, oh no. Face to face in a Sherlock's-face-was-so-bloody-close-John-was-a-bit-nervous-his-cheekbones-might-brush-John's-and-cut-them-open kind of way. John wasn't really sure what was going on, and was also unsure whether he was going to be attacked or if something equally violent was about to happen, and consequently didn't notice how his breath hitched and his heart beat a little faster.

"What the-" John started "Sherlock, what the hell?"

Sherlock backed up a bit, much to John's relief. That feeling was relief, right? It felt a bit like disappointment, but it had to be relief. "Is this- I thought-" Sherlock took a breath. "Usually when people do nice things for me, they expect certain...favours. You saved me from expulsion, you turned down my brother's bribe, a request was obviously inevitable. You don't seem like the type to desire narcotics or homework help, so that leaves..." His gaze travelled slowly downwards to John's crotch, then back to John's shocked face.

"Oh god no!" Sherlock drew back quickly, a look flashing quickly through his eyes. "I mean, sorry, it's not that- well, no... I mean, I wouldn't, but that's not to say that you're not, I mean, I'm just - I'm not, that is to say, " John huffed, then forced his mind into forming coherent phrases. "I. Mean. To. Say. That. I. Don't. Want. Anything." Okay, coherent, good. Robotic? Not as ideal. He took a deep breath before continuing. "I just did it to be nice. I don't like to see people in bad situations. You don't owe me any, um, favours."

Sherlock titled his head. "But you- hmm. Your eyes..." John's brow furrowed in confusion. "Nevermind. Misunderstanding, then. Obviously."

Sherlock nodded and moved over to his desk, then almost immediately reached for his open laptop and began typing furiously, as if nothing had happened at all.

* * *

John sat on his bead, reading. The door to the room closed, announcing the otherwise silent arrival of Sherlock Holmes. John was about to grunt a greeting when he noticed the other boy was approaching John's bed. He turned and placed his book next to him. "Hey Sherlock." Sherlock kept walking towards him, unusually slowly. "Did you, um, did you want something?"

Sherlock stopped in front of where John was now sitting, legs off the bed. He said nothing, just gave a small smile. "I was just wondering if you had changed your mind about me owing you favours."

John said nothing, which Sherlock took as a yes. He bent down and placed his lips softly on John's. They were warm and soft, and kissed slowly, questioningly. John made a startled noise, then reached a hand to Sherlock's neck to pull him closer, deepening the kiss as he did so. Sherlock flicked his toungue softly against John's lips , sending shivers down John's spine. John slowly parted his lips, allowing Sherlock access. The tongue matched the boy, it was inquisitive, searching, and overwhelming. All thoughts of, well, anything left John's mind as - oh god how on earth was he doing that with just his _tongue_- the kiss deepened further. Sherlock's hands travelled to John's chest and slowly pushed him back onto the bed. His hands explored John, and for skin that looked so pale and cold, his fingers were warm, and every spot they touched seemed to burst into flame and leave John groaning into Sherlock's mouth. Their mouths parted after a long time of frantic kissing and John gasped to feel Sherlock slowly travel down his jaw line and neck, biting and sucking. He stopped at the collar of John's favourite nightshirt, then John rose slightly from the bed and pulled it off. Sherlock's eyes quickly scanned his toned chest (thank you, football), then he gave a rough but appreciative noise of approval and began another assault on his lips, biting the bottom one.

It was then that John took control, using his considerable strength to flip Sherlock on his back. He slowly pulled Sherlock's shirt over his head, ruffling his hair as he did so. John gave an appreciative moan as Sherlock pulled him in for another kiss; the restless black curls were so sexy when mussed up. John pulled out of the kiss slowly. The pale boy looked up at him, lust clouding his eyes as John ran soft touches down his chest and stopped at his zipper. He worked Sherlock's trousers slowly, carefully unzipping and teasing the boy's pants. He avoided the part of Sherlock desperately begging for attention, just to tease him a bit, then slowly began stroking its edges.

Sherlock tilted his head back and groaned. "John. _John."_ His voice became rapid and breathy. "J-John-"

"JOHN!" Sherlock's face was suddenly above him, irritated and flushed. "Dear god, how loud do I have to be?"

"Wai- Wha-" John was very, **very** confused.

"I've been trying to wake you for ages. You were moaning and wriggling. I thought you were dying."

"I was- of course I wasn't dying!" John became painfully aware of how tented his pants were, and he fervently hoped Sherlock couldn't see it in the darkness.

"Well then, could you please keep your nightmares quiet? I'm trying to work." Sherlock returned to his desk, sat down with a huff, and picked up his pen and began scribbling.

"Uhm, yeah." John slowly stood up and made his way to the door, grabbing the room key as he went. "I-just going to run to the loo-um, be back."

"Fascinating." Sherlock said, not bothering to turn his head.

John stood against the wall outside the entrance to the room, breathless. What the bloody hell was that? His dream- his very, very, **very** vivid dream - clouded his mind. He tried to consider things rationally. Okay. He was dreaming. Having very sexual dreams. Very ...enjoyable sexual dreams. About his asexual room-mate. His asexual **male** room-mate. Which led to the question. That inevitable question. The question that he really did not want to think about. What the hell had Sherlock heard?

Oh, and not to mention the pondering of John's sexuality. It wasn't as if he was homophobic, but he had always been certain he liked girls. Well, he supposed he could reflect on that later. At the moment he had a more... pressing matter to attend to. He was tired, and horny, and **extremely** confused. So he staggered off to the bathroom and if he happened to think of his latest dream while he was there, well, so be it.

* * *

Author's Note:

_Hello! Sorry If this took me a while to update, 've been a bit busy. Quick thank you to everyone who's been following this, means a lot. Reviews and critiques are welcome, I love to hear feedback. Hope you guys have enjoyed reading this as much as I have writing it.  
_

_Also, we've got some scandal this chapter, don't we? What's poor John to do? :)  
_


	5. Strange Occurrences

The news came during breakfast the next morning. John sat down at the table, expecting a cheery greeting from his new friends, but instead found only downcast looks. "Morning!" He gave the whole table a smile, but received none in return.

"Sorry. Did I do something?" His mind raced, thinking of all the possible things he could have done to ostracise himself in less than a day.

"Don't worry, mate, it's not you." Lestrade came up behind him and gave him a little pat on the back. "You met Vic yesterday, right? Well, last night he was attacked walking back from the football field. No one knows why, but he's in bad shape. I mean, he'll live, but they did a number on his face and possibly broke a few of his ribs."

John looked around the table and finally noticed that the expressions he saw were not of annoyance, as he had initially thought, but varying shades of worry and grief. Mary's face stood out the most, and he remembered Lestrade saying something about Vic fancying her.

"Oh. I'm sorry." John sat down to his breakfast quietly. "Do they know who did it?"

"Not a clue. Vic didn't see, and no one else was out there." Mike sighed into his tea. "And you didn't see anyone, did you Seb?"

Seb, a thin boy with shaggy blonde hair who was wearing a suit vest, looked up with a strange, unreadable expression. "Not a soul." He looked straight at John with the same expression; John wasn't sure what it meant but it didn't make him exceptionally comfortable. "I really hope they find whoever's responsible."

Jeanette placed a hand on his. "It was so lucky you found him when you did. Guess that makes you something of a hero, Seb." She gave him a frankly dazzling smile, but he didn't even notice.

Lestrade rolled his eyes in John's direction. It didn't take Sherlock's genius to figure out Lestrade fancied Jeanette, who was admittedly very pretty. But it seemed her affections were aimed elsewhere. C'est la vie.

* * *

John entered english class later that day to find Molly waiting for him with papers scattered everywhere and what appeared to be every play Shakespeare had ever written.

"Whoah." He stopped in front of her.

She made a little noise that reminded him of a kitten. "Whoops, hi, sorry. I got a bit carried away."

He placed his book bag on the floor and sat down across from her. "I can see that." He gave her a slight smile. "Sorry, I haven't really done anything so far."

"No, it's fine. I always over-prepare." She gave him a quick smile before returning to the small book in front of her.

"So, Molly, have you decided on a monologue yet?"

"Not really. I want it to be sad, though." She said without looking up.

"Why?"

"Because it's the most complex and compelling emotion. Anyone can write happiness; a true writer tugs at your heart, makes you cry, makes you feel. I've always loved the sad bits of literature, they make you feel alive." Molly said all this without looking at him, as if she wasn't even registering the words coming out of her mouth.

"Wow." John said with what he hoped wasn't too stupid of a smile.

"What?" Molly said, finally looking up at him sheepishly.

"Nothing." He said with a blush. "It's just - you're kind of beautiful." She blushed even redder than he had. "Oh god, that's sounds so weird. I'm sorry. I'm not a weird creepy stalker, I promise."

She laughed, a short little bout of giggles that he thought suited her perfectly. "It's fine. It's been a while since a boy I've known for a grand total of about two hours has called me beautiful, though."

"Yeah, well, I'm a bit odd."

"So I've noticed."

John laughed, and realised that he was really going to enjoy working with mousey Molly Hooper. He picked up _The Tempest_ and began flipping through it.

"You're not bad, yourself, John Watson."

"Pardon?"

Mollie looked up at him with a smile. "I mean, obviously you're not my type."

John smiled, "Considering your type, I'll take that as a compliment."

Mollie laughed softly. The two of them stayed like that for the duration of the class, mostly reading but every once in a while talking and joking, almost like old friends.

* * *

John entered his room later that night to find it empty. He wondered at this for a bit, then decided Sherlock was probably in the labs again. He hoped the git wasn't there alone, then sighed and flopped down on his bed; he could start on his assignments later. Instead he thought. Just thought. About his dream, about Vic's attack, about how on earth someone as lovely as Molly Hooper could be so hung-up on Sherlock Holmes. Speaking of which - where was he anyway? John sighed. No doubt doing something he shouldn't; something bound to get him into trouble. He fought the impulse to run down to the labs and make sure he wasn't off getting himself expelled. It wasn't his problem, was it? He pulled out a library copy of Much Ado About Nothing and tried to focus. Three minutes later he was grabbing his room key and a jumper, ready to go searching for his room-mate.

He pulled the door open to leave and saw Sherlock standing there. "Oh good. You're still in."

"Good?" John took a step back. That wasn't Sherlock's usual attitude towards his presence.

"Yes. No doubt you've heard. Victor Hurst, age 17, found 58 feet from the fields. Bruising around the legs, though minimal. Two broken ribs and some other light bruising, though the most damaged was his face. Five deep cuts, both eyes bruised, broken nose, and three teeth missing."

"Umm, yeah. Shame. I met him yesterday. Seemed like a nice enough bloke."

"What? Oh, yes, I'm sure he was lovely." Sherlock whisked around the room, looking for something, and John wasn't sure what exactly was different about him. Then it hit him.

"You alright, mate?" He started, a bit concerned. "You're sort-of... smiling."

"Of course I am!" Sherlock knelt down and pulled his small black notebook out from under his desk. "I hadn't expected something like this for at least two months! A mysterious attack on a boy in the dark? No suspects in the vicinity? This is fantastic!"

"Fantastic?"

"Don't you see? A mystery. An actual crime to be solved. No doubt it will be kept from the police for a while, this school tends to try and hush up things like this, giving me the opportunity to investigate."

"You - you're completely insane." John took a step back from the boy genius.

"You confuse madness with boredom. Now, John. I've been wanting to talk to you. You know Victor, yes? Tell me, what is he like? Habits, eccentricities, likes, dislikes, enemies, oh, and who is he rooming with?" Sherlock said, perching on his bed with his notebook and a pen.

John looked at the pale boy in disbelief "I met him yesterday!"

"But you are friends, correct?"

"I've never spoken to the guy! I mean, we're sort-of in the same group, but it's not like we all go around in a circle discussing our habits and enemies!"

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, and it occurred to John that he legitimately had no idea what groups of friends did around each-other.

"So you can't tell me anything at all about him?"

John shook his head, still marvelling at Sherlock's apparent fondness for mysterious brutal attacks; as well as his complete ignorance of social behaviour.

"Oh good. Well, this has been a magnificent waste of my time." Sherlock stood and made to leave the room.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

Sherlock turned and gave John a look filled with so much condescension it was almost tangible. "John, there's been an attack. It is my responsibility, as the one person who can help the victim find justice, to investigate. Not all of us can just sit and read Shakespeare and wait for someone else to fix things."

And with that, he pulled on a long black coat and left the room.

Nine days had passed since that night, and no one had been chosen as a suspect for the crime. Vic was back in school, but the attack was far from forgotten. He had been very handsome before, John was not embarrassed to admit, and there were still traces of it remaining in his strong jaw line, but his face was bruised, scarred, and swollen, and John knew it would be quite some time before he returned to normal.

And Vic's face wasn't the only change. Sherlock had gone into some sort of super-detective mode, barely sleeping or eating. He had pinned John against the wall (causing sensations John really didn't want to think about) and locked him out of the room a couple of days ago when John had attempted to put sleeping pills in his tea. Sherlock had noticed immediately, and was completely convinced John was trying to poison him. Which, if the git kept waking him in the middle of the night by pacing in front of his bed, wouldn't be an unreasonable assumption.

Not to mention how stressed the genius boy was lately. Something about the attack was torturing him. Sherlock had been investigating (whatever the hell that entailed) for the past few days and had come up with absolutely nothing. At times he went silent for hours, other times he rambled on to John about various theories. And if John was being honest, he suspected Sherlock didn't even need him there most of the time, and when John was gone he kept on muttering to the empty room.

John was worried. About everyone. His new friends were sad and on edge, Vic was jumpy and quiet, and Sherlock was on the brink of a psychotic meltdown, John was sure of it. Other than observing the slow descents into depression, paranoia, and frankly insanity, he still had yet to choose his Shakespeare monologue and was already doing horrible in maths. Molly already had her monologue picked out and was currently doing 3 page character back-stories on each of the people involved in said monologue, insignificant or not. John didn't even know what he wanted his monologue to be about. In other words, John Watson was stressed, worried, slacking, and overwhelmed.

It only made logical sense that things would get worse.

* * *

Two weeks and a day had passed since Vic's attack. Everyone above the age of sixteen was allowed to leave the school grounds unaccompanied if they chose. (Younger children were only allowed out in groups and with a chaperone) John and his new group of surprisingly lively friends were heading out for a day of general frivolity to help them forget the incident with Vic, who was putting on a happy face every morning despite the fact that smiling was still a bit painful.

"All right Johnny boy," Lestrade put an arm around John's shoulder. "Where to?"

John smiled and gave him a friendly shove. Since both he and Lestrade had made the football team, the two had grown closer, almost to the point of best friends. They looked out for each other, played football in the afternoons, and suffered through chemistry in tandem. (John was sure if he asked Sherlock would be all too happy to give him a hand with his studies, but he'd never sink that low)

They decided to go see something at the cinema (a typical horror film with an abundance of dark corridors and suspicious people) John had sat next to Sarah, and during a particularly scary part she buried her head into him, not wanting to see. He was pleased with this.

Afterwards they all went to a small cafe and feigned sophistication as they sipped various hot drinks. It was then that they heard the screams. A young woman ran into the cafe crying, shouting for someone to call the police, babbling nonsense until John stood up and put two hands on her shoulders.

"Shh, it's all right, sit down." He said, guiding her to a chair. "Lestrade, phone the police!" He called before turning back to the woman. "What's your name?"

"Julie." Her entire body was shaking and she made hiccupy little sobs, haphazardly wiping the tears from her eyes and streaking black makeup across her face.

"Hi Julie, I'm John. Okay, what's wrong, did someone hurt you?"

"No, but my friend, she's outside, she's been hurt and she's bleeding. They've moved her to sit up but there's something wrong with her voice..." Julie looked awful, tears streaking down her face and terror clear in her eyes. "I should be with-"

"No no no." John pushed her lightly so she was sitting back against the chair. "People are handling it, you need to calm down. We'll get you some water, yeah?"

She nodded, chest still heaving and breath rapid.

John stood up and went over to where his shocked and confused friends sat. Lestrade walked back to the table as well. "They're on their way, they say they've already had a couple calls about this."

"Okay, um, Sarah, would you mind getting Julie some water?" She nodded and scurried over to the counter. "I'm going to go check on things outside."

"Not without me you're not." Lestrade said, pulling on his coat.

"That's ridiculous. What can you do?" He said, shaking his head.

"Could say the same to you." Lestrade said with that cocky grin of his and walked past John out the door.

John rolled his eyes and smiled, then called back at the small group of friends chatting anxiously, "Take care of her, alright? we'll be back."

* * *

When John returned to the room that night, it was empty. Sherlock had left him a hastily scribbled note.

_Went out. Looking into recent attack. If Molly comes by, tell her to turn on her phone, I'll have texted her. Lock the door, I know you forget._

Lock the door? John shook his head then turned to click the lock shut. It was true, he was always forgetting to lock it; though Sherlock had never worried about it before, John remarked. Why remind him in a note? He considered it. It couldn't be because of the attacks, could it? Sherlock wasn't... worried? John instantly dismissed the thought. He didn't even think Sherlock had a worry function. Especially not when it came to John. The two of them got along well, or as well as a sociopath and a football jock could living in close quarters with nothing in common. Which is to say they tolerated each-other, spoke occasionally, but otherwise avoided each other and fought over whether or not being a genius gave a prat the right to use his room-mates things in experiments (it didn't) and whether playing Olly Murs at full volume was too harsh of a punishment for being a git (it wasn't).

He threw himself down onto his bed with a sigh. The scene in town had not been pretty. A few people had managed to prop the woman up against a wall, but that didn't exactly make things better. She was unconscious and bleeding out of her mouth. John ran to check her vitals (his father had taught him years ago) and Lestrade had, well, transformed. John had never seen his friend so focused and serious. He began grilling everyone for information on what had happened, then cleared everyone who wasn't being useful out. It was a strange sight, a sixteen-year-old bloke ordering around adults, but there was something about his height, build, and authoritative voice that made even John not want to oppose him.

The police and an ambulance had arrived on the scene quickly and Lestrade marched over to the officers and told him the information he had amassed. They took a few more statements, gave Julie a shock blanket, and told everyone to clear out while they inspected the area. John was all too happy to comply. After that, everyone was too shook up to enjoy the rest of the day in town, so they had all walked the long road back to school and somberly went their separate ways.

John had just changed into his pyjamas and sat down on his bed with Othello when he heard the lock unlock, then relock, and Sherlock scurried into the room, throwing his long black coat onto his bed as he did so.

"You locked the door."

John rolled his eyes and didn't even bother looking up from his book. Typical Sherlock. No hello, no 'how are you', just statements of fact directed like questions. "You told me to."

"And you followed my instructions. That's very rare."

John turned to face his room-mate. "It's not like-" _Whoah._ John's words died in his throat when he saw Sherlock.

Scratch that. _Shirtless_ Sherlock. That was some alliteration he could get used to. His room-mate's chest was pale - no surprise there - but lean and subtly muscled. It was quite a nice sight. He pulled his eyes up to Sherlock's questioning expression and tried again. "It's not like I jumped off a building for you. I locked a bloody door, which I should've been doing anyway."

Sherlock tilted his head as he grabbed his pyjamas from his bed. He was always doing that, John remarked. He figured it was a reflex. Flat mate says something strange. Head tilt. Someone is being stupid. Head tilt. Tea water boils faster one day. Head tilt. One day he was going to tilt so far he fell over. "Irregardless. I looked into the incident the woman in town today."

"Looked into meaning...?"

"I went to the hospital, the scene of the crime, the police station, interviewed a witness and three of the victim's friends, and am currently considering seven possible motives." Sherlock said with a smile while pulling- _thank you God _ - a sleep shirt over his head.

John gaped at his flatmate. He didn't look like he was joking. "You can't be serious. It's been a grand total of maybe eight hours."

"I move fast." Sherlock said with a wink.

A bloody wink. He really needed to stop with the winking; it did strange things to John's sexuality.

Oh yes. That was another thing. Over the past couple of weeks, John was beginning to feel... strangely, to say the least. Since his first dream concerning him and Sherlock, he hadn't had any others, but that wasn't to say he didn't think about it. John Watson had always been confident in his sexuality, even when no one else he knew was. He didn't have any problem with gay blokes, he just didn't think he was in their ranks. But now...

It wasn't like he thought about Sherlock all the time. Mostly he daydreamed about a girl in the year above him and blushed whenever Sarah smiled. But sometimes, it was like he couldn't quite get him out of his head. Like when Sherlock accidentally lit his pillow on fire. The pale boy had panicked and looked frantically around the room until John had the good sense to throw it down and step on it. Watching Sherlock frantic and confused was very endearing. Almost cute.

Cute. Since when did John find other boys cute? And the way Sherlock looked in the mornings, with his curly sex-hair and rumpled clothing, well that was very nice. John figured it all came down to two things: Sherlock was inhuman, and John was a hormonal teenage boy. When Sherlock did things like light objects on fire, argue with John over whether or not a blue box could possibly overcome the strict linear progression of time, or ask John about what function a rubber duck served, John found his complete ignorance of human behaviour endearing. It was like John was raising a small kitten who constantly looked at him with questioning eyes. When it wasn't clawing at his feet from under the bed, that is. A metaphor, by the way. As entertaining as the mental image was, Sherlock had yet to lie in wait under John's bedstead. But the other boy was very adorable sometimes, not knowing quite how to be normal but pretending he did.

And the other feelings towards Sherlock, the rip-his-clothes-off-and-pin-him-to-the-bed-and-possibly-use-some-handcuffs kind of feelings, those were just repressed sexual urges or whatever. John hadn't had a girlfriend for nearing on a year, and was bound to want to jump the bones of anyone he found aesthetically pleasing. Simple as that.

Sherlock hadn't found anything convicting when he looked into the attack in town. The woman's injuries were especially puzzling. Upon further examination, the hospital staff had found her vocal cords had been removed. The cuts were surgical, Sherlock had said when John asked, obviously done by a professional. The woman had also suffered a blow to the head and her wrists and ankles showed signs of being tied down.

"She doesn't remember anything. In fact, she woke up at the hospital and had no idea why she was even admitted until she began trying to speak." Sherlock frowned. "Her friends are useless. It's always the same, 'she had no enemies, she was normal and lovely, get out of my house, what are you, fifteen? bugger off' so tiring."

John sighed. "Oh woe is you. Obviously people should just trust strange teenagers that come into their homes and ask personal questions about their injured friends, because if said teenager is a condescending genius he obviously knows how to catch a violent attacker better than the police force."

Sherlock did that stupid head tilt again. "Sarcasm...?"

John gave him a double thumbs up and a mocking smile.

"How mature."

* * *

The next attack came within days. John and Sherlock were both in the flat. John was re-reading Much Ado About Nothing and putting little stickies on passage he liked, Sherlock was dissecting a python and putting its fangs into a little glass jar. There was a sharp rapping at the door and both boys looked up.

"It's open!" John called, putting down his book.

"What a suprise." Sherlock mumbled and John gave him a scathing look.

Lestrade stepped into the room. John smiled but the boy didn't even look at him.

"Another one." He called gruffly.

Sherlock put down the snake's pericardium. "Where?"

"In town. A woman named Amanda Peters. Said she was walking home when it happened."

"And?" Sherlock said as he wiped his hands on John's shirt. (He couldn't find a rag and it was sitting inches away)

"And she's been blinded."

"Any leads or clues?"

"Isn't that your department?" Lestrade said with a smirk. "I talked to the doctors, and this one is remembering fragments."

"Brilliant."

John stood up. "Hi, remember me? Very confused John Watson? I am sitting right here."

"Hey." Lestrade said with a nod.

"Hey? What the hell? Since when do you two... consult on crimes?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Extra-credit?"

"You both know you're insane, right? I mean... there are police out there who can work this out."

Sherlock smirked. "John, your faith in the law enforcement is endearing, but they are incompetent and reaching. A trained badger could get further with the case."

"Oi, you watch what you say, Holmes." Lestrade said with a smile "That's my future you're talking about."

Sherlock laughed. "Ah yes, DI Lestrade here is going to completely change the modern British system of law enforcement."

John raised an eyebrow. "Was that sarcasm? Since when do you understand sarcasm? Since when do you two even know each-other? I'm so confused."

"An ordinary night for you the-"

"Shut it." John snapped.

Sherlock sighed. "We have a mutual interest in solving this, and researching it and compiling our results will actually get us extra credit in class. He's the least objective candidate to work with, though that isn't saying much."

"Be still my beating heart." Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. "Basically we have mutual respect for one another and usually I can refrain from punching him long enough to send him off to deduce crime-scene-type things."

"Eloquent." Sherlock said, pulling on his black coat. "Well, you two can sit here and talk about girls and sport, I'm catching the first cab into town."

"You're not to leave on week-" John started, but Sherlock had already whisked out the door. "Idiot."

"No arguments there, but he does love a challenge. Plus, must be nice to have a moment without him in here." Lestrade said, gesturing around the room.

"Got that right." John said, then noticed his most comfortable shirt sitting next to the snake body. "What the-" He picked it up and examined the strange stains on it. "I'm going to murder him. Oh god, if that's snake intestine..."

Lestrade just laughed.

* * *

"All right." Sherlock said, surveying the collection of papers he had pinned to the wall. "First attack - Victor, age seventeen, most injuries to the face, still healing. Second attack - Lillian Worthington, age twenty-nine, vocal chords removed with precision, making careful recovery. Third attack - Amanda Peters, blinded, no other injuries. Third victim doesn't remember much, except a man's voice saying 'hurry' but that's not much to go on. No common time of attack, no perceivable connection between the victims, motif of 'see no, hear no, speak no,' in regards to evil comes to mind, but does not apply to all victims, possible that first attack was a schoolyard prank as others have happened outside of town, we must be open to the possibility that someone will be made deaf in the coming weeks. However, assuming the first attack was part of this string, we must be prepare to intercept another - you're back early."

John placed his football kit next to the bed. "Yeah, it was raining a bit too hard to practice - so you were aware I was gone?"

Sherlock turned away from the wall to finally look at John. "Well, you weren't in the room. Even you could deduce that when someone is not in their room, they must be out of it."

"Oh thanks." John said, rolling his eyes. "I meant that I heard talking in here, and I thought you were under the impression that I was still in the room, listening to you."

"No. I was talking to my skull."

"Is that your pretentious way of saying talking to yourself or..." John sighed as Sherlock lifted up a human skull. "Yeah, no, should've seen that one coming."

Sherlock placed the skull on top of his desk and went back to examining the collection of information that he had amassed about the victims of the recent attacks, including some data John was positive you needed government clearance to see.

"I've been trying to find a link between the victims. This can't be random, so there must be a connection."

"Why can't it be random?" John asked quietly, then looked down when Sherlock slowly turned his gaze towards him. "Sorry. I'll shut up now."

"No, it's fine..." Sherlock said quietly. "It can't be random because of how the victims were attacked. Nothing stolen, no threats, very specific things done to them and hardly any injuries anywhere else. Random doesn't work like that."

John nodded.

"So, Victor Hurst, Lillian Worthington, Amanda Peters. What have you been up to?"

John looked up. "Did you say Lillian Worthington?"

"Must I repeat everything for you?"

"No, I mean, she's a friend of my mums. Well she used to be at least, my mum used to have a book club, and every weekend she'd come to my house. She used say I was too fat and that my sister would never get a husband if she kept slouching like a caveman. Kind of funny now, Seeing as my sister will end up with a wife, so I suppose Lillian was right-"

Sherlock snapped his head around at John. "This is all terribly interesting, except it isn't at all, it's mundane and boring and I genuinely don't care. And I really don't appreciate my work being interrupted by tedious anecdotes from your fat childhood."

"I wasn't finished." John snapped as Sherlock rolled his eyes. " I was just saying that Lillian must be dying without the ability to speak. She had some sort of religious podcast where she told a bunch of people how they were going to hell."

"I didn't know that..."

"You didn't know her, and I doubt it's in whatever government record you no doubt illegally acquired. She had a pseudonym she used so atheists wouldn't burn her house down or something."

Sherlock nodded.

"Now that I think of it..."

"Yes?"

"Well, it's just, I knew Amanda as well. My mum had her over for tea once, she does that. She was a professional seamstress. Worked in wardrobe design on some movies. I can't imagine you can do that nearly as well blind, if at all. And Vic, he was an average conversationalist and shit at football, he lived through his looks. A bunch of girls were in love with him..." John trailed off in thought.

Sherlock looked up excitedly. "And they destroyed his face! John, you're being helpful!"

"Must that tone of surprise be so apparent?"

"No, don't you see?" Sherlock paused, then eagerly turned to his wall of clues. "The victims! They've all had something they really valued taken away from them, something they don't know how to live without! Oh this is christmas!"

"It really worries me how excited you are about this."

"No, you don't understand. I have the link, now all I need is a motive. Perhaps..." Sherlock froze for a moment in contemplation, then reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a pink phone.

John couldn't really help himself, he snickered. Sherlock looked at him curiously, then sighed.

"It's not mine. I, um, borrowed it from Amanda."

"You did what?"

"I thought it might help."

"So you stole her phone."

"Borrowed."

"Without asking!"

"But with every intent of returning. Now shut up, I need to think."

John sighed, then opened his laptop. Without really thinking, he went to Lillian's website, which conveniently ignored the mutilation of its founder and advertised a church bake sale. The few students standing behind a table of biscuits had the same bored and annoyed expressions on their faces and John was pretty sure they could give a shit about their lord and saviour.

Sherlock sighed. "I can't think of any way the victims were related." He looked so shocked then, completely confounded that his brain had let him down.

John took a second look at the picture and laughed.

"Did I say something funny?" Sherlock said, disdain dripping from his voice.

"No, it's just, I know this kid in the front. He looks so angry here..."

"Fascinating." Sherlock frowned. "What are you looking at?"

"Lillian's podcast's website. They had a bake sale for her church, and Seb's in the front looking like he want to shoot the cameraman."

"Seb?"

"Yeah, friend of mine." John smiled, looking through the photo gallery for more angry Seb.

"Your friend Sebastian?"

"That's the one."

"As in Sebastian Moran, roommate of Victor Hurst, the first victim, and now a link between the first and third attacks?"

John froze. "No, you don't think Seb's got anything to do with this..."

"How well do you know 'Seb'?" Sherlock stood up to examine his wall.

"Not all that well, I mean, I've hung out with him, he's a bit strange but I don't think he'd attack anyone."

"Well, he's all we've got." Sherlock grabbed his own phone and punched in a number. He held up a finger to John, signalling for him to be quiet. "I need any and all information on Sebastian Moran." He said into the phone. "S-E-B-A-S-T-I-A-N-M-O-R-A-N. No, I'm not going to thank you. Yes. I _know._ Just email it to me." He hung up without saying goodbye.

"Who was that?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock turned back to him. "Oh, I have some contacts that help me with my investigations from time to time."

"Contacts?" John asked, but received no reply.

When Sherlock's 'contact' emailed him the file, he found that Sebastian lived next door to Amanda Peters. John didn't think he'd ever seen him happier. Sherlock was all for interrogating the boy right there and then, but John stopped him. They needed proof. "You don't happen to know where Sebastian would be now, do you?"

"Probably at dinner." John said, with a glance towards the clock.

"Excellent. that gives us a bit of time."

"Time for what?"

"Time for us to beak into his room, and look for his tools of operations as well as proof of who he has under his control."

"Under his control? _Us_?"

"Yes, us. You and I. And of course he has someone working for him, cutting out someone's vocal cords aren't isn't the work of a seventeen year old, especially not when they're so precise."

John nodded, "Ok," then shook his head, "No, I still don't understand. Why exactly am i coming along?"

Sherlock tilted his head like the answer should've been blatantly obvious. "I need someone to talk to. My skull is nice, but it doesn't talk back. You occasionally have useful things to add."

"So I'm slightly more useful to you than the skull of a dead man."

"Accept the compliment and move on." Sherlock said, pulling a torch out from his drawers.

John sighed, but put his shoes back on. "We really need to teach you how to compliment people like a normal human."

"Ah, but where's the fun in that?" Sherlock said with a smirk.

* * *

As it happened, Vic had been inside his and Sebastian's room, so Sherlock and John returned to their room, Sherlock sulking the whole way. When they finally entered their shared room - surprise, surprise- the sulking escalated to levels John thought died out when a human turned six. The amateur detective pulled his black coat around him and tucked his knees into his chest, then proceeded to glare at the wall until John was halfway convinced it was seconds away from bursting into flames. After about half an hour of attempting to do his chemistry work, John had found it utterly impossible since Sherlock had fallen forward on his bed, and had been face down for going on ten minutes, muttering to himself, though never lifting his face up from the bed to breathe. It was a very annoying distraction. He briefly wondered if the genius had decided to detract breathing from his human functions as well as sleeping and eating. Also if he was a very cleverly disguised cyberman. Which was actually more likely than he'd like to admit.

It certainly would explain the lack of emotions.

The next day, John awoke to see Sherlock still face down on his comforter. When he moved to poke him and the dark haired boy smacked his hand away with a huff, he concluded that his room-mate was indeed still alive and therefore, not his problem.

However, that just didn't last. He had a lack of classes that night after practice and decided to meet up with Molly to work on their project. They had just pulled out some of the plays and their notes from class when John's phone vibrated, signalling a new text message had been received.

**112C. Come at once if convenient.**

** -SH**

John groaned. Being summoned into his sort-of-friend's room by his sort-of-pet-genius was not on the top of his list of things that are fun or smart. After wondering just a bit where (and when) the hell Sherlock had acquired his number, he decided that it _was _inconvenient and went back to work, not commenting on the text to Molly. It was about a minute and a half later (John had a feeling it was _exactly_ a minute and a half) his phone buzzed.

**In inconvenient, come all the same.**

** -SH**

John groaned, then thought about it. Vic's room was in the boys' wing, which was nowhere near the girls'.

Something about his expression must have shown his thoughts, because Molly looked up at him and asked "Do you need to be somewhere now?"

"No, it's fine," John sighed, put the phone down again, and went back to his work.

This time, he was positive it was exactly a minute and a half. Mollie smirked at John's expression of complete exasperation.

**Could be dangerous.**

** -SH**

_Oh for the love of-_ John sighed, then looked up at Mollie, who was already smiling at him.

"Sherlock?"

John nodded and began to collect his books.

Molly giggled,"Don't worry about it. His summons are hard to ignore, trust me, I know." She gave him a little wave. "You two have fun."

He scribbled his number on a piece of paper. "Text or call me, okay? We'll meet up some other time." Then, trying not to feel like he was on Sherlock's leash, he left Molly's a-tad-too-cheerfully-decorated room and made his way through the fields and courtyards to Victor's.

* * *

"Hello John." Sherlock looked up at him from the bed as John slammed the door and purposefully neglected to lock it, just to spite him.

"You do realise this **isn't** 112C, don't you?"

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I've already been there today."

John stared at him. "And you didn't bother to tell me I shouldn't go to Vic's room and stand around like an idiot for ten minutes?"

"What? Oh, yes, I forgot, I texted you, didn't I?" Sherlock looked back down and resumed scribbling notes to himself.

"YES. Yes, you did. While I was working with Molly. Across the school." John sighed. "You don't care at all, do you?"

"No..." Sherlock muttered, turning a page.

"Fine, you _giant_ prat." At this point, he was really just too tired to care about Sherlock wasting his time. "Did you find anything?" John flopped next to Sherlock, since the git was sitting on **John's **bed.

Sherlock looked down at the boy laying next to him in confusion. Close proximity. This was new. "Yes, actually... hopefully I can use it as proof that Sebastian was behind all of this. I just... can't figure out what his motives might have been."

"Hmm." John yawned; he was exhausted, and felt his eyelids drooping. "Well, be sure to let me know if you need my help for anything 'dangerous'."

"You... still want to help me?" Sherlock tilted his head, though John didn't see it.

"'S what friends ar' for..." John murmured into the pillow.

"We're friends?" Sherlock tried out the word; it felt foreign on his tongue when not said with malice.

"'Course we 'r, you git." John muttered, before drifting asleep.

"Oh." Sherlock's lips turned in the tiniest bit of a smile. "Goodnight, my... friend."

* * *

Author's Note:

_Well, this is awkward._

_Hi, if anyone is still reading this story._

_I realise it's been...well...months since I've updated, and I'm so sorry it's taken me such a long time._

_To be honest, I forgot I was working on this. I had classes, and other projects, and other fics I was writing, and this one just completely slipped my mind._

_Also this chapter was being such a twat. Honestly, I couldn't write it for ages, it kept frustrating me._

_I promise I will try to update as quickly as I can, and if you are still reading this au, I love you more than John loves jumpers and Sherlock loves sass._

_Comments and Critiques are still welcome, and please try not to hate me too much._

_I love you all._


End file.
